The Violet Hour
by RoaringMice
Summary: The idea of water as relief, rather than as something to be feared, was new to him.
1. Chapter 1

_Warnings: Swearing. Angst. Redemption._

_Notes: The title and a few elements of this story are from The Waste Land, by TS Eliot. I wrote this in honour of November, which is "Drown Malcolm" month._

_Thanks: To the folks on the Yahoo EntSlash list, who helped me think through the liturgy of bad things that have happened to our dear Malcolm._

x-x

**-Now-**

Ocean waves surged against the boulders below him, but Malcolm stood with his feet firmly planted on the rocky jetty. His bare feet were slanted forward on the slick granite, huge chunks of which had been pieced together, seemingly pell-mell, to form the quay jutting into the harbour. The setting sun had turned the water a deep, bright blue, and he could see clouds gathering, their edges tipped bright orange against the darkening sky. Even over the salt-tinged air, he could smell the rain coming.

A cool breeze made him wrap his arms across his chest. The approach of night was pushing the temperature lower and his light jacket wouldn't do for much longer. His feet were already freezing - he'd abandoned his shoes somewhere on the beach a few kilometres back.

A wave hit the rock below him, sending salt spray shooting up. He looked down at the water metres below and almost smiled. The idea of water as relief rather than as something to be feared was new to him. So much had changed, lately.

It was twilight, now; time hanging balanced between the day just past and the night to come. He stood, poised, trying to find the balance.

The past year had been difficult. Hayes' death, and those of others, weighed heavily on him. Then there was his seeming inability to separate himself from his past covert work. Archer's lack of trust. His own disappointment in himself. The loss of Trip's friendship.

But those were not the reasons why he was standing there, staring down at the water. The real reasons were hard to name. His own loneliness? The danger of his mission? The deaths he had on his hands? Cowardice? Fatigue? Curiosity?

Perhaps it was not his to know, but to do.

So why was he brooding? He'd come out here with a purpose, and instead found himself standing and staring at the water.

The sky had darkened around him, the water turning murky and black. Down the beach he could see lights from the motels and businesses blinking on, but they seemed far off.

The first raindrop hit his shoulder, and then it was a deluge. The cold rain soaked him quickly. He didn't fight it. He stood, arms wrapped around himself, staring out at the sea.

He took a hesitant step forward, closer to the edge of the jetty. The water below him was now lost in the dark and rain, but he could hear the waves slapping the quay. The rain pelted the rocks around him and hit the water in a rising chorus.

He thought he heard a voice calling. The rain came harder and all sound was lost in the downpour. He took another step closer, his feet just at the edge of the jetty. He stared down at the blackness.

There was a tug at his shoulder. He was pulled away from the edge, and back. Adrenaline spiking, heart pounding, he swung about.

It was Trip, looking dishevelled and slightly panicked. "What's going on here?" Trip said, almost shouting to be heard over the storm.

Malcolm stared at him for a moment. He felt a flash of anger. Lip curled in disgust, he turned away and started walking back down the jetty, not caring if Trip followed.

x-x

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	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for your comments. Poor Malcolm! _

x-x

**-Then-**

Malcolm braced his hands against the wall of the shower, letting the water wash away the dirt and blood of the day's mission. How many times had he found himself here in his quarters, the water his only comfort as he tried to push past the events of the day? Raising a fist, he hit the wall gently. How many times?

This last mission had been a disaster. Good lord, the captain could have died today, and it would have been his fault. Some tactical officer he was. How had he miscalculated things so badly?

Malcolm had been suspicious of the aliens' motivations from the start. Maybe it was his cautious nature, or maybe it was the fact that, between their red skin and the horn coming out of the centre of their foreheads, they looked rather demonic, but the combined effect was a sense of deep unease. But Archer, despite his experience with the Xindi, was still entirely too trusting. And sure enough, their new friends' definition of "peaceful exploration" didn't quite match up with his own. Not when they tried to take Hoshi by force it didn't.

Malcolm had thought he'd been prepared. Well, as prepared as Archer would let him be, going down to a strange planet with minimal security so as not to come across as "threatening". Still, he'd been suspicious from the start, and he hadn't been surprised when they'd finally made their move. He'd thought he'd brought appropriate weaponry, and from his quick analysis of what little they knew of this species, his devices should have worked. But there had simply been too many of them. It was only the aliens' own mistake, which he'd seen and taken advantage of, that allowed him to get his party out of there. But not before Archer had nearly been shot.

No, he thought, splaying his fingers across the surface in front of him. It wasn't entirely his fault. He'd insisted on more security from the start, but to no avail. Archer had hamstringed him yet again, this time with a biting, "Why don't you let me play captain for a while, Malcolm?"

No, the problems on this particular mission weren't entirely his fault. But his inability to manage his own captain, to have the man respect his opinions when it came to mission security - that certainly was.

How many times? he thought, punching his fist against the wall in rhythm with the words. How. Many. Times.

Sometimes, when things had been relatively calm and peaceful, he felt he was still able to grasp a sense of the hope and import of their mission. Then something would go horribly wrong. It had gotten so he was constantly on edge, continually waiting for the next tragic incident. He wasn't quite sure how others were able to live with the constant dread. Turning, he slumped back against the stall, the water flowing over him. He shut his eyes. He was so damn tired.

It was only when the water went cold that he stood stiffly, unsure of how long he had been standing there. Palming off the water, he stepped from shower, grabbing for the towel.

Despite his fatigue, he knew he was wound too tightly to sleep, so he shrugged into a t-shirt and shorts, slipped on his trainers, and headed for the gym. If he was lucky, he could work himself into physical exhaustion and give himself the gift of a few hours of dreamless sleep.

When he entered the gym, Trip looked up from an exercise bike and nodded at him absently. The man was sweating, obviously in it for the long haul. Malcolm stepped onto the nearest treadmill and started a light jog as a warm up. He glanced at Trip, then away.

He still mourned the loss of that friendship. The Xindi had killed Trip's sister, and Trip had pushed him away. After that, their friendship - if it could even still be called that - had been limited to surface-level conversations. Nothing more. So when the world had started bearing in on him, he hadn't gone to Trip. He hadn't gone to anyone.

And something about him changed. Where earlier he'd always been able to get past certain events, now... Now he didn't seem to have it in him. Instead of being able to leave incidents in the past where they belonged, they built up; each tragedy adding, with nothing being taken away.

Malcolm picked up the pace a bit, the whir of the treadmill and his thoughts driving him on.

He'd never been all that comfortable developing friendships with people he worked with. He'd had a small group of friends prior to shipping out on Enterprise, people outside of Starfleet. No one he was all that close with - just people to talk to from outside of the job. But here, basically everyone on the ship was military, and certainly everyone was a co-worker. He was uncomfortable getting too close. So when Trip had broken through his walls and become his friend, it had surprised him. And when Trip had withdrawn from that friendship, it was almost as if he was worse off than before. So he'd devoted himself wholly to the job. And he was doing his best, whatever needed doing, to ensure the safety and security of his ship and his crew.

He almost tripped when the alarms went. His eyes met Trip's, and they both headed to the bridge.

x-x

_Please let me know what you think of this so far. Thanks!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for all your reviews and comments. Yes, I play a bit with the timeline in this piece, and that's on purpose. It's bothered me that, in one ep, Trip and Malcolm have fallen out, and yet soon after everything's hunkey-dorey again, with no in-between. I'm playing a bit with the in-between. I hope you enjoy. _

x-x

"That arrow was a near thing, Lieutenant," Phlox said as he cleaned the wound on Malcolm's lower arm. The doctor had already completed his work on Malcolm's side, where the arrow had grazed its path. Putting down the bloody gauze, Phlox picked up a device and began to pass it over the angry gash on his forearm. "But you should be fine in the end." He reached for a gauze pad, and Malcolm tuned out the rest of his recitation.

He felt like he'd been spending a lot of time in sickbay recently. Between being pinned to the hull by that mine, tortured by Suliban, shot in the back, choked, shot again... It was getting to be more than a bit ridiculous.

This time, a ship had jumped into their space, close enough to set off Enterprise's proximity alarms. But by the time he and Trip had charged onto the bridge, the aliens had made contact, and Archer had accepted their invitation to meet on their vessel. Of course, once on board there had been a slight misunderstanding, and the fun had commenced.

Phlox swabbed the wound, and Malcolm hissed against the pain. "Sorry, Lieutenant," the doctor said, not turning from his task. "Done with that now." He reached for a bandage.

The sound of footsteps made Malcolm look up. A quick hand pushed aside the privacy curtain surrounding his biobed and Trip's eyes met his for a brief moment, then he turned to the doctor. "He going to be all right?" Trip asked Phlox.

Phlox looked up from his work. "Yes, in a few days."

"Could you leave us alone for a minute, Doc?"

Phlox blinked in surprise, his brow wrinkling in a frown. "I'm in the middle of bandage -

Trip cut across him. "I'll take care of it," he said firmly.

Phlox raised an eyebrow, but he nodded. Moving away, he slid the curtain closed behind him.

Trip, still not looking at Malcolm, grabbed a stool by its edge and rolled it beside the bed. Sitting, Trip stared down at the injury. He pulled a gauze pad from the tray Phlox had set up nearby. Moving carefully, he placed the gauze over the wound. "You get injured a lot," he said, his voice almost expressionless.

Malcolm didn't raise his eyes, instead watching Trip's hands as they worked. It had been so long since he and Trip had had an actual conversation, he wasn't sure how to respond. "It's part of the position," he finally said.

Trip's hands stilled and he looked up. "You're taking unnecessary risks."

Now Malcolm did meet his eyes. Brusquely, he answered, "They're not unnecessary."

"You jumped in front of that projectile -

Malcolm interrupted. "What would you have me do? Let it hit the captain, or you?"

"It's not like it's your job to -

"No, it's not." His voice came out angrier than he'd expected, so he lowered his tone. "My job is anticipating the danger, knowing all of the possible things that might happen, then making sure they don't. But when I don't do that part of my job right -" He cut himself off, unable to talk about why he'd bollixed it up so badly, and why he was so afraid it could happen again.

"Still, there must be something about all this that you like," Trip said, looking back down. His hands started their work again. "The adrenaline or something."

"I don't try to get shot," Malcolm spat out.

"But you do like the job," Trip said, more of a statement than a question. Still working, Trip glanced up at Malcolm, then down. Malcolm could see his twisted smile, even with his face half-hidden. "I had an old friend, from high school," Trip said, his voice soft.

Malcolm kept silent, not sure of where this going, or how it related to him.

"He started using drugs back in college, maybe even before - always off chasing his next high. Eventually I lost track of him. Then we lost him to the drugs." Trip's hands stilled and he looked up at Malcolm. "I'd hate to - " He stopped, lowering his eyes. After a moment, his hands began working again. He started taping the bandages, smoothing each piece gently across Malcolm's skin. "So it came to me that all this - the rush, the danger - is like an addiction, in a way. Like you're chasing some kind of high." Trip put the final piece of tape in place and looked up, his eyes blazing.

Malcolm couldn't look away. Not that Trip was right, but he'd never thought of it in those terms. And the look in Trip's eyes... God, he really believed it, and...

Malcolm heard someone approaching, the curtain being pulled aside, then the captain's cheerful voice. The man cut himself off in mid-greeting.

Malcolm's eyes were slow to leave Trip's. Once they met Archer's puzzled gaze he tried to put up his usual front.

"Everything all right in here?" Archer asked, his voice having lost its joviality. His eyes moved from Malcolm, to Trip, and then back.

"Yup," Trip replied, pushing his stool back from Malcolm's bedside. "We're good." His eyes held no cheer.

Archer turned to Malcolm with raised brow, and Malcolm simply nodded. He knew he wasn't acting his normal self, but he was distracted by his interaction with Trip.

"Right," Archer said. He'd obviously decided to let the situation pass for now, although he and Trip exchanged a look that Malcolm figured meant they'd be talking later.

Fabulous.

x-x

Clad only in jeans, Malcolm leaned back against the headboard, his bandaged arm resting across his injured side. The motel room was dark around him. Too dark. Standing, he threw the door and window open to the beach outside, allowing the sunlight to stream through. He settled back on the bed.

He'd been released from sickbay just yesterday, only to get to his quarters and find a message from Archer. He'd granted both he and Trip shore leave, saying, "it looked like you two could use a break."

Yes. From Enterprise, and from each other.

Phlox had agreed, so long as Malcolm didn't expose his wounds to water. He didn't think that'd be too much of a problem. He'd never been one for swimming.

Other than the shuttle ride down, he hadn't seen much of Trip, although he knew they were staying in the same hotel. There were others from Enterprise here, too - the captain was sending people down in shifts. Malcolm was actively avoiding them, preferring to be alone.

It was a clean, if not elegant, seaside hotel on a planet they'd visited peacefully (for once) a week or so ago. This was all he really wanted right now. To be by himself in a fairly anonymous seaside hotel, alone with his thoughts. He needed to figure some things out.

He shut his eyes, taking in the scent of ocean on the breeze. Some planets he'd visited had been quite alien, but this one reminded him of Earth so much it almost made him ache. Although there were differences. This beach, for one, wasn't like the beaches in England, which tended to be a bit cold. It wasn't humid and blazingly sunny, like Malaysia. And other than the ocean, the scents were all wrong. Still, though, there was enough familiar here to remind him of home. Trip had grown up on a beach in Florida. Did he also find it familiar?

Their interaction in sickbay - he was not quite sure what to make of that. Their conversation weighed on him.

He stretched the fingers of his bandaged arm, wincing as the movement jarred his injury. What Trip had suggested had bothered him ever since they'd spoken. Trip actually thought he'd done this to himself, purposefully.

It was his responsibility to keep his crew out of danger. But when they were in danger, it was his job to prevent others from being hurt. If that caused him to be in harm's way, so be it.

And yet he'd heard of people doing things like that to themselves, not even realising what they were doing. They were simply in so much pain.

Maybe there was a kernel of truth to what Trip had said. Perhaps he was trying to find a way to put himself out of his misery. He smiled wryly. That'd be a hell of a thing.

It would almost be a relief.

His breath caught. He opened his eyes and looked through the door, out at the blue sky rising above the dunes before him.

A relief.

He let out a slow, measured breath. The thought should have worried him. It made sense that it would. But actually, oddly, he felt at peace. For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.

x-x

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	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks so much for your comments. It's so nice to come back here and read them!_

x-x

**-Now-**

Trip paced the small space between Malcolm's bed and the armoire, saying nothing, although he was obviously furious. Malcolm watched Trip's feet as they wore a path across the dark carpet.

Trip had caught up with him as soon as he'd left the jetty, and had followed him back to the room. He'd towelled off and changed, Trip shoving dry clothes at him, somehow ending up in pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. Now he sat on the bed, his feet, clad only in socks, tucked up under him for warmth as the rain beat against the darkened windowpanes.

Trip stopped and squatted in his line of sight, and Malcolm couldn't help but look up at him.

"What the fuck were you doing back there?" Trip asked, the tension clear in his shoulders and jaw.

"Nothing," Malcolm replied, his voice coming out flat. "Thinking."

Trip gave him a narrow-eyed glare and Malcolm knew he wasn't buying it.

Malcolm felt a flare of anger. "Why do you care?"

Trip frowned and barked a sharp, "What?"

"All of a sudden, you care? I mean, other than in sickbay..." Malcolm let his voice fade away. "It's been months, Trip," he said, his voice almost lost in the rainfall.

Trip stared at him appraisingly, seeing way more than he should. He stood and held out a hand. "Come on. Let's go for a run."

x-x

They ran in silence, Malcolm's sodden pyjama bottoms slapping against his legs as he moved. Trip was taller and faster, his longer legs helping him cover the distance easily. But Malcolm knew he could outlast Trip, even with his injuries. Trip had always been faster, but Malcolm had more endurance.

Trip had set them out along a leafy road toward the hills, away from the oceanfront. They ran almost shoulder-to-shoulder down the dark street as the rain slowed to a trickle, then stopped. A vehicle passed, its hiss and their feet the only sounds.

They pressed on. Malcolm splashed through puddles, drenching his shoes. He couldn't imagine that Phlox would particularly appreciate the fact that he was running, or that he was soaked. An ache began to build in his side, where he'd been hurt. And his arm hurt, under the soaked bandages. Phlox was going to kill him.

Trip started speaking, words forced out between gasps. "I know I've been an asshole."

Malcolm looked at Trip, then forward again, keeping his eyes on the dark road.

"I'm just... I don't know. I was angry," Trip bit out. "Angry at the Xindi, at the world, and I took that out on you. I guess I figured we were close enough, our friendship could take it." He let out a harsh laugh. "You know, like kids do with their parents. Take them for granted, thinking they'll always be there. And if you're lucky, they are, for a damn long time. But if you aren't..."

Malcolm saw Trip glance his way, but he didn't answer. They separated to swerve around a bit of debris in the road and then came back together.

"So I got to thinking," Trip continued. "And the past mission kind of confirmed things in my head. And then I find you out on that jetty, and... what should I be thinking?" Trip paused, and the only sound Malcolm heard was the steady pound of their feet. "I see you out at the end of a pier, about to..." Trip shook his head. "I don't care what it was. The fucking Xindi, what I said, Hayes' death, your own angst, but no matter what, no way was it bad enough for..."

Malcolm put on a burst of speed, leaving Trip behind. He couldn't listen to this.

"Malcolm?" he heard from behind him as Trip stopped running. "Malcolm!" Trip shouted, sounding frustrated. "Would you stop and... Oh, good fucking..."

Malcolm heard Trip start running again.

He knew he could stay ahead of Trip now. It had been far enough of a run already that his endurance would be starting to wear Trip down. He picked up the pace even more, trying to put distance between them.

He heard Trip shout something, but he didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He didn't know the answer. He was running away and he knew it. He pushed himself further. He was running... God, why? Maybe he was running from whatever he'd left back there in the water. Perhaps, if he kept going, he could run until he was far enough away from it that it didn't have him stepping forward off that jetty, the cold trapping him as the water closed above his head.

His feet pounded the road.

Maybe he wouldn't have let himself go.

Heart hammering in his chest, he took in a ragged breath.

Maybe Trip did save him.

Malcolm went down in a heap on the wet road, twisting his ankle and wrenching his injured side. He lay there motionless. After a moment, he sat up slowly and pulled his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He lowered his head, panting.

A few minutes later Trip stopped beside him. Hands on his knees, he bent over and tried to catch his breath. "You all right?" he gasped out.

Malcolm could still feel it, that sense of despair. But it felt removed now, like it was behind him. He looked up and nodded.

Trip straightened slowly, still breathing heavily. "I really don't know what you thought you were doing back there." He held one hand out.

Malcolm reached up and grasped the hand, and Trip pulled him to standing. "I thought I did. Now I'm not as sure."

He didn't know what it was that had changed. He didn't know what he wanted. But he obviously didn't want it badly enough to be dead. He started walking in the direction of the ocean.

Trip fell into step beside him. "That's a good thing?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Good, because..." Trip stopped so abruptly that Malcolm actually passed him by a few paces before he turned to look at him. The dim moonlight only served to highlight the anxiety in Trip's eyes.

"Damn it, Malcolm," Trip said, throwing his hands up. He hesitated, then whispered, "Don't." His brow wrinkled in a frown as he stood there, arms dangling at his sides, palms out. He looked at a loss.

Malcolm could sympathise.

x-x

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	5. Chapter 5

x-x 

Malcolm let his legs hang off the edge of the sickbay bed. He was growing to really hate this place.

Hands clenched on the bedframe below him, he sat hunched in on himself, letting the activity of the room pass him by. He'd had to report to sickbay once he'd got back from the run, since Phlox had made him promise not to get his injuries wet, and they'd needed tending. And Trip had made him. The man was obviously worried about him and what he'd done - or not done - down on the beach.

His head flashed up when the door to the room opened. Archer gave him a cautious nod as he entered, then stepped to where Trip and Phlox huddled. They started speaking in low voices.

He hated it when people did that. Talked about him as if he weren't there. Whispered conversations.

Trip glanced in his direction, and Malcolm gave him a pointed look.

He knew exactly what they were talking about.

Phlox separated himself from the group and approached Malcolm's bedside, while the others stayed back. The doctor closed the privacy curtain.

Here it comes, Malcolm thought, bracing himself.

"I need to ask you some questions," Phlox said, his normal cheer gone. When Malcolm nodded, the doctor started with the logical queries - how he was feeling, when those feelings had started, and so on.

He answered as best he could, not looking at Phlox. He knew he couldn't look at him and answer. He didn't want to see what was in Phlox's eyes.

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. He knew that Phlox was keeping his voice low purposefully, to keep their conversation private, but still, it was as if he could feel Trip and Archer's presence across the room. They were probably staring at the curtain, straining to hear despite themselves -

"Lieutenant?" Phlox said, interrupting his thoughts.

Malcolm looked up to find the doctor frowning slightly.

"Sorry."

"It's all right," Phlox replied. "I think that's enough for now."

"Can I go?"

Phlox shook his head, then placed a hand over Malcolm's, stilling it. Malcolm looked down, surprised at the physical contact.

His fingers were wrapped over the edge of the bedframe. Apparently he'd been scraping his palm along a sharp seam or rivet, because he'd done himself bloody.

Calmly, Phlox lifted Malcolm's hand, turning it so that it was palm-up. He began cleaning the wound. "Not yet. We need a full physical and mental evaluation, and that will take some time. In the meantime, I want you to go into counselling with someone from Starfleet Medical, via remote."

When Malcolm made to protest, the doctor looked up from under his brow. "That wasn't a request." He returned to his work. "You'll start as soon as I can get it set up." He placed a bandage across the cut.

"Can I at least return to my quarters?"

At this, Phlox turned the full intensity of his gaze on Malcolm. "Not until we're sure you're not a risk to yourself."

Before Malcolm could react to that last statement, Phlox opened the curtain. Archer, from across the room, nodded to Phlox, and they walked away, obviously to discuss him.

This whole thing rankled. Certainly, the despair he'd felt earlier was still there, but he wasn't as on edge as he'd been. He didn't think they'd see a repeat of his earlier performance. Or he hoped not. His mouth twisted in a smile. He was doubting himself, now. He ran a hand over his eyes, pushing up into his hair.

"You gonna be okay?"

Malcolm looked up at Trip, who was standing awkwardly beside his bed. In answer, he raised an eyebrow.

Trip grimaced. "Sorry. Stupid question. I just..." He looked away, then back. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything," Malcolm said, his voice coming out flat. "You've done enough."

x-x

_Please review and let me know what you think so far. Thanks! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and commented so far. I read each one, and they mean a lot to me._

_This is the final chapter._

x-x

Malcolm endured two days of being questioned, poked and prodded. Phlox put him through a series of tests, both physical and mental, and he began counselling with Starfleet. This consisted of them asking questions, and him responding in one-word answers. Did he have a family history of psychiatric disorders? No. Of substance abuse? No. Had he been taking any drugs? No. Had he been drinking lately? No. Had he suicidal thoughts in the past? No. Ad infinitum.

Not particularly helpful.

Trip kept coming by. Although they hadn't specifically spoken about the incident on the planet, he could tell Trip was keeping a careful eye on him. Trip would do things like drop in at odd hours and talk about seemingly random things: the latest tweak to the Warp drive, what Chef had served at lunch, a joke Travis had played on Hoshi; each time spending only a few minutes before leaving as quickly as he'd come.

And Malcolm would sit and listen. He could tell Trip somehow felt responsible for his well being. So he could handle Trip's checking in, making sure he was not sitting there in the dark with a pistol in his mouth. And in reality, he supposed he didn't mind the visits. He had bugger all else to do, and Trip always ended up doing most of the talking, seeming to expect little if any response from him.

He was lying on the bed with the curtain pulled around him, the sounds of Phlox's animals keeping him awake, when the doctor stepped inside the enclosure.

"I have some news," he said with a smile.

So he was sitting, now, on a chair in Phlox's small office. Archer was seated beside him, and Trip was leaning against the doorframe.

Malcolm supposed this was better. At least if they were going to talk about him, he was going to be party to the conversation. The side effect, though, was that he felt as if all eyes were on him. Which, he supposed, they were. He consciously made his fingers release their grip on the arms of the chair.

Phlox leaned forward across his desk. "There was a drug on the arrow that struck Mr. Reed."

"What?" Trip exclaimed in surprise. He looked at Malcolm, brow furrowed.

Phlox also cast him a glance. He continued, "The substance would be lethal to the species that made it, but to a Human, it causes a reaction in the body that alters brain chemistry."

"What do you mean 'alters brain chemistry'?" Trip asked.

At the same time, Archer leaned forward in his chair and said, "Why didn't we pick this up earlier?"

"It was a trace amount," Phlox replied from behind the desk. "We don't normally do chemical analysis down to that level, but as part of my investigation I went back and checked everything." He turned to Trip. "It's interfering with some of his neurotransmitters."

"Damn," Trip muttered.

"Indeed," said Phlox.

"Is there something you can do?" Archer asked, peering at Malcolm.

Malcolm took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. This was nothing he didn't already know - Phlox had run through it with him earlier - but still, it all felt a bit too much.

"No," said Phlox, shaking his head. "I don't want to start him on medications which may interact with this compound. We simply don't know enough about it."

Malcolm heard Trip try to speak, and Phlox raised a calming hand. "The effects are already less than they were two days ago, when we brought him in. It appears that it will wear off with time." He turned back to the captain. "Still, he'll need to remain here, and on watch until we're sure the chemical is done with him."

"What about the..." Trip shifted in the doorway, casting a nervous look at Malcolm. "I had to tell them that I thought you were hurting yourself, Malcolm."

Malcolm shook his head. His eyes moved from Trip, to Archer, to Phlox. From their expressions, he knew any protest he made at this point would be useless. He looked down. His knuckles had gone white, he was clenching his hands so tightly.

Shit, he thought. Bloody hell. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.

Phlox nodded. "The counselling should continue."

"How much time?" Malcolm asked as he looked up, suddenly feeling as if he was a full beat behind the conversation.

Phlox turned his piercing gaze on him, and Malcolm had to keep himself from flinching. "For what, Lieutenant?"

"For..." Malcolm waved his hand, taking in the events of the past few days. "...all this to wear off."

"A good week, possibly more. There's no way to tell for sure..."

A week more of this? Being stuck in sickbay, under observation, with no privacy at all? His emotions were already churning enough as it was. He wasn't sure how much longer he could bear being -

"Malcolm?" Trip said from above him, his face a mask of concern. He'd stepped into the room at some point. "Did you hear what Phlox just said?"

"What?" He shook his head. "Sorry. No. I'm not sure I'm..." he ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry."

"He said you could go back to your quarters."

"Under observation," Phlox added with a smile. "We feel your recovery may go more smoothly if you're in more comfortable surroundings. Mr. Tucker has volunteered..."

Malcolm lost the rest of it in the whirl of his thoughts. He could leave. He could leave, and this - whatever - would be done in a week.

Somehow he doubted it was quite that simple.

The idea that all of this was caused by a drug... But - he thought back - it hadn't all started with the arrow. He'd been feeling bad prior to that.

He took a slow, shaky breath. Bad, yes, but not suicidal. He'd had rough spots before, and had always come through them, battered but whole. And yet these feelings felt so much a part of him. They felt like they had always been a part of him. It was hard to believe they'd pass. He wondered what they'd leave in their wake.

He jumped a bit when Archer clasped a hand to his shoulder. The man smiled, and Malcolm nodded in acknowledgement.

Archer stood, and Trip slid into his chair after he'd left with Phlox.

"So, what?" Trip said quietly. "Do you think this will pass?"

Malcolm simply shrugged and turned away. Maybe it would. He didn't think he felt that much different from a few days ago. Although - when he thought about it, he supposed he did. He felt edgier, jumpier, his emotions in a storm, but at the same time, he felt less like his world was collapsing in on him. Even back on the planet he could remember feeling a bit better. Even simply the run... Malcolm gasped.

"You okay?" Trip asked.

Malcolm nodded without looking at him.

Trip had done that on purpose. The arsehole. Trip knew he'd been in crisis. He'd suggested the run more than just to take his mind off things. He'd suggested the run for the bloody endorphins. Get his mood elevated, and get him tired enough to agree to come back to the ship.

Looks like man had saved his life more than once that day.

Still, Malcolm knew that the basic underlying issues needed dealing with. Trip thought he was getting hurt too much. He didn't think Trip was right, but... he could understand why Trip thought the way he did.

And there were the problems between him and the captain. He made a vow to speak with Archer. Not to lecture him, but to discuss the issues. That had worked before, and perhaps it would work again.

More importantly, he vowed to take this opening with Trip and build on it. Perhaps, eventually, he could get that friendship back.

He felt a hand touch his knee. He turned to see Trip there, staring at him with obvious concern.

Maybe that had already begun.

x-x

_Thank you to everyone who read this story. Please let me know what you thought._

x-x

_I had inspiration for certain lines/scenes:_

- The bit about Malcolm's actions being like an addiction - that idea and the related idea of "chasing a high" came to me from the tv show "Prison Break".

- The idea of being able to outrun your despair came to me from a book called "Jarhead", by Anthony Swofford.

- The following lines were adapted from something in "Jarhead": "But those were not the reasons why he was standing there, staring down at the water. The real reasons were hard to name. His own loneliness? The danger of his mission? The deaths he had on his hands? Cowardice? Fatigue? Curiosity"

- I can not remember the author's name or the story's title, but I remember getting the idea for these lines after reading a story: " 'My job is anticipating the danger, knowing all of the possible things that might happen, then making sure they don't. But when I don't do that part of my job right -' He cut himself off, unable to talk about why he'd bollixed it up so badly, and why he was so afraid it could happen again."


End file.
